The Hunger
by Ericka Jane
Summary: Snapshots of the major trials in Sam and Dean's lives, leading up to the even ground they finally find themselves on. Round-about spoilers for 6.16


A/N: I'm kinda obsessed with this Shirley Manson song, and it inspired me to crank this baby out. It's kinda abstract but so is the song, so I guess it fits. It's nothing epic or anything, but I hope you enjoy it.

Warnings: Some hell imagery, possibly overused metaphors, general weirdness.

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><p>"And that's the way we lose our minds<p>

Oh all the names we leave behind

Though no one knows how much remains

For all we lost for the blame.

And so it's over, the wind blows on

But there are whispers from the storm

As we wander through the lonely dark

With the hunger of our hearts."

-Shirley Manson, _The Hunger_

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><p><strong>1.<strong>_  
><em>

There's a lot of yelling. Hoarse words that tear throats, make hands tremble, and tears fall. It leaves anger burning deep in his chest and resentment pounding in his heart in time with his pulse. Sometimes he's so sick with it that it's all he can do to keep himself from tearing something apart, namely _them_. Sometimes, it's himself he wants to destroy. There's this constant pressure pushing inside his skull, burying in as it chants, "Not enough, not enough, not enough." Sam pushes back until there's nothing inside but himself, chanting, "Get out, get out, get out."

But he's so deeply ensnared in the cycle that his head is constantly pounding, his chest constantly burning, and his throat is constantly sore.

He's surrounded, suffocating, and yet he's never felt so alone.

* * *

><p><strong>2.<strong>

Smoke clings to him like a second skin. Countless amounts of showers and two bottles of body wash later, and he can still smell it. Can still smell _her_. He's one nightmare away from dousing himself in bleach. Inside him, rage swirls so hard and deep that it nearly washes away the grief. At night he stares at the ceiling and can feel blood drip on his forehead. As it hits his skin with a steady drip, drip, Sam thinks of all the ways he's going to make whatever's responsible suffer. He doesn't even think to be scared of the fact that he's not horrified with the methods he comes up with.

He's only concerned with _find it, find it, find it._

* * *

><p><strong>3.<strong>_  
><em>

He feels like he's being buried alive, trying to cling to the edge of the six foot hole, being pulled down by his brother's mortality. He can practically feel the pressure of dirt under his fingernails. And all he can do is climb, trying to keep both of their heads above the earth. But Sam doesn't care if he suffocates, slow and painfully with fresh soil filling his airways. He only cares that Dean lives. So he digs until his lungs burn with exertion and his arms feel noodle weak, but he never stops. Dean can't die.

In the end it wasn't enough. It never is.

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><p><strong>4.<strong>

Dean finds comfort in the dark, in the screams and pleads that echo endlessly through the bone and flesh walls of hell. His hands are constantly slippery with blood. He learned very quickly that he likes the feel of the warm, thick substance sliding between the pads of his fingers. He likes the feel and the sight of blood almost as much as he likes the weight of the blade, almost as much as he loves the sounds the souls make when he tears into them. He turns each one into a work of art, taking his time, savoring each moment of their bodies splitting and suffering. When his mentor curls a hand around his neck and praises him, pride wells up inside.

When he makes it out, claws his way out of a pine box, Dean wants to vomit and pray that along with the bile, the pride and satisfaction of ripping into flesh comes out with it. It never does. And when he dreams, he doesn't dream of demons above him while strapped to the rack. He dreams of the hunger inside that only seems to quiet once it hears the screams of whichever soul was unfortunate enough to land itself under Dean Winchester's razor in hell.

Dean drinks and drinks but no matter how much whiskey he pours into himself, he can still feel that hunger.

He still wants to vomit. He never does.

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><p><strong>5.<strong>

The power roaring through him burns hotter than jet engine fuel, and is just as potent. It flows hard and fast, threatening to consume and overtake him. He welcomes it. After so much searching and fighting, it feels like he's finally found peace. It burns hot inside him, drowns out the whispers of a woman and the pleads of a man. It just burns and burns, and gets so loud that it's a wonder he hasn't gone deaf.

And when it's gone, there's a different burn, a hunger that he realizes will never ever be filled. The thought of walking around with this emptiness, this need, for the rest of his life fills him with fear, weakness, and ultimately shame. As the feeling eats away at him and he finds himself alone once again, he wonders how he could've ever thought he was strong in the first place.

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><p><strong>6.<strong>

They don't find peace until they suffer indefinitely. Maybe that's the way it is for everyone. They'll never know because the Winchesters have never been like "everyone else." The hunger inside doesn't settle until they've fallen further than rock bottom and climbed their way back out with bloody fingers. It isn't until they finally stand side by side at the foot of a grave (funny how death always throws perspective in their faces), that the ache inside easies. Hell quiets. Blood stops roaring. Pain eases.

Together. That's the Winchester way.

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><p>AN: I've been reading a lot of pre-series fic lately and it really got me thinking about teenage Sam's side of things. I just feel so bad for him and what he must've been feeling, and I hate thinking about how Dean must've felt when Sam left. All of this got me thinking about how Sam and Dean are always fighting for or against something, and they usually win, but it always comes with a terrible price.


End file.
